


Take that can away if you can.

by Brujebutchwrites



Series: Stardew Valley | The Dow Farm [1]
Category: Stardew Valley (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcohol Withdrawal, Angst with a Happy Ending, Autism Spectrum, Depression, Emetophobia, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Hyperventilation, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Panic Attacks, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Relationships, Recovery, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Insert, Sharing a Bed, Trans Male Character, trans headcanon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:48:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22655770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brujebutchwrites/pseuds/Brujebutchwrites
Summary: I never see Shane works that don't go all in for romance nor explore the more realistic ugly parts of recovery, and I kind of crave That TM. So let me have at it too with the self-insert whump mumbo jumbo; no romo version.Set post-8 hearts event- not 10, jesus-, Farmer Uidelsib is two years or so in, full house built and married to Emily. They/them pronouns, same as me.Diverges from then on, Shane-centric from an outside POV for the most part.
Relationships: Emily/Player (Stardew Valley), Implied one-sided Shane/Elliott, Shane & Farmer Uidelsib, Shane & Player (Stardew Valley)
Series: Stardew Valley | The Dow Farm [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1629826
Comments: 3
Kudos: 29





	1. Gulp it down.

**Author's Note:**

> I barely write anything anymore and this was supposed to be a simple drabble going with that doodle:
> 
> https://dyker-farmer.tumblr.com/post/190760846011/take-that-can-away-if-you-can
> 
> Guess I don't exagerate when I give my self-insert poor impulse control.  
> Anyway, enjoy!
> 
> Oh yeah, this is not beta-read at all and posted late, so feel free to point out typos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alcohol related and emetophobia triggers already apply.

There's a few to-know to survive life in society, in the valley; there's no good way to comment on the age nor weight of both resident housewives, you can't say no to Evelyn's homemade cookies- and why would you, you fool-, you do not fight at the Saloon or you'll get no cheese anymore on your pizza and only sparkling water for drinks, and-  
And you don't mess with Shane's alcohol related ritual.

Except I did, that night, because you do that, when your two-years long friendship with the guy taught you better than letting his impulses overcome yours, when your buddy is trying to recover from teenage long-lasting into early adulthood, trauma-enhanced heavy addiction, and you know, you know tomorrow he'll feel like absolute shit and question his right to therapy the moment he'll stop his pounding skull from splitting. Wonders what a three-dosage paracetamol can do.  
At least he doesn't drink it out anymore.

So yeah, when you're in my shoes, you get that Joja store-bought crap out of Shane's hand, and you brace yourself for the incoming lash out.

The first fractions of seconds are always those to look closely into most. It's only a glimpse, but before the scowl slips on like a well-worn boxing glove ready to strike, there is always this open page I learned I needed to decipher as quick as I could.  
Tonight, it's heartbreaking. When I peck his forehead- doting big sibling habits die hard, even when you're actually the youngest of the pair- the eyes I catch looking at me are so confused and bare of any emotion, except for the sorrow that goes beer-soaked tears, it pangs. I get used to the breakdowns, working in the fields I do when I'm off the farm's, but it's not the same when it's a friend.

When I straighten back, offensive beverage in hand, it's already gone in a flinch, away from the empty space behind the chair and onto the table, as he snarls.  
"Wha- giv'me back- 's mine!" I don't know how much he drunk before he met up with me, but from the slurring, it's a Lot. A season and a half into sobriety. That's harsh.

I ignore him and walk behind him, pondering where to put the beer for now.

"Y-you can't just do that! It's my booze I got with m'money, not some- who d'you think you are?-" He sputters indignantly, angry tears fewer than the sad ones but still there. He tries to turn around and grab behind his back, but the wild movement is way off and only gets the chair to nearly topples over. I rush in time to stabilize it, and profit off the moment to set a strong hand on his shoulder.

"I can just do that, 'cus it's my house I got with my money, and I think I'm your pal who knows when you've had enough. Dude, I trust you to be an adult, but minutes before, you were already so torched I had to keep your neck upright so you didn't faceplant into the table, and you nearly just kissed my floor good evening. Not to mention you clung to my arms the whole way from the little entry stairs to the kitchen because, quoting, 'If I don't I'll fall in the hole and won't get up'."

I turn to the fridge again, going to open it, before I think better of it. Likely enough, we'll both forget it was there in the first place, it'll stink up my fridge- it's Joja's- and it'll be money out of Shane's pocket for nothing. I set it on the counter, with the rest of the pack. He'll put it to cool down when he's back to Marnie's. Or he won't, probably.  
That's not a worry for now.

When I caught up with him, it was a few feet below my doorstep; he'd probably slipped up trying to climb the three steps up to it, and settled for it. He was nursing that same can, muttering to himself, head down, curled up on himself. Except for that leg sticked out, he probably hurt it when he fell, I'll have to look at that and work on it if it's too swollen. Hopefully that'll spare us from a visit to Harvey's.  
Bad memories. Not mine, and it's warm and not raining outside, but. Déjà-vu.

Anyways, he looked the picture of "help I've fallen and I can't get up- and even if I can I won't because Fuck You", and it's been a hassle to have him cooperate. But when I asked if he wanted to leave, he shook his head with a fervor no somnolent drunk should have. That resulted in a lovely streak of vomit down the wall right next to the door. That's also for later. If Eryza doesn't lap it up. Ew. This cat's never predictable.

Now, he's staring at his hands, sitting at my table, contemplating something too far down for me to see- or maybe just zoning out with a sleeping brain. Then he mumbles. "Sorry."

I get back to the table and sit at arm's length across of him. "Nah, 's okay. I don't mind being a helping hand or touchy-feely, must be the frog-eater in me. Not for the helping part." I'd chuckle but my quip falls on deaf ears.

I go to put my hand over his. When he doesn't blink at it, I try and shake a reply out of him, gently. He startles and hawkeyes our joined fingers. When he's finally looking at me, I raise a single eyebrow. He doesn't say anything, but when he pulls back his arm, I let him. We both straighten up, and it's hard to keep up the eye contact.

"So…" There's a heavy air on us. Suddenly, like the last year didn't happen, we're sitting a stride away of each other, and yet it feels like he's all the way back to the forest, looking down at waves.

"Do you want me to do something?" I bend myself a little closer to him, not moving otherwise.  
He puts his head in his hands, shivering. Can't tell if it's the AC or his system kicking the alcohol out, or itself, in stress. I think I hear something, but it might as just be his shuddering breath.

"Shane" I insist, voice level, not pressing. "I need words. I want to help, I truly don't mind, but I need words to know what to do." He's never shown signs of going nonverbal before. If he does, I'll improvise. Until then… I need words.

Time ticks slowly as we wait. Then, with great effort and deep fatigue, he drags his palms up from under his nose to his temple, spreading some snot and wet tears across his face from his scrunched shut eyes. Lips trembling but finally showing, that attempt to let out a sound that's not too garbled. He coughs, sniffles a bit, breathe in again, sounding like a sick dog, and blows through gritted teeth before his jaws go slack. Eyes still closed, he whispers, and I have to lower myself some more toward his crouched form to catch it.

"Can I get something to drink…?" His voice is hoarse.

The demand could be comical, if we were into sour humor. And we usually are. But right now, we're not finding the joke in the lines. I stand silently, and as I walk to the fridge again, I let my hand brush his shoulder- same spot as before.

I take a minute to choose, look into the pantry. When I'm back at the table with my items of choice, he's still sitting there, his cheek is cushioned on his arms, face hidden from view. His shoulder, except for the occasional tremor, rise and fall in rythm with his snores. Breaks my heart to interrupt that, but not really. Hangovers are mean bitches with the sharpest nail art on the blackest of boards.

"Psst, dude. C'mon." I rustle his hair backward. He hates when I do that, says it tickles, and it makes him sneeze. So I obligatory do it once a day if I can. Let's say today's my late quota for the last four days I haven't seen him.

He gruffly tells me to kindly refrain from such pleasantries, and raise bleary eyes back up at the table. I can also guess he tried to bat a hand at me, but his coordination is off and he slaps himself lightly on the ear. Then he glares bewildered at his hand for a few seconds, obviously insulted. I profit of this moment to grab a small basin from under the sink, on second thought.

When he brings his attention back to me, I'm sitting again. Between us, a jug of fresh milk from this morning, a small sack of peppers, and a juice carafe sit aside a green glass bottle. There's also some bread, mostly for me to munch on. Because, hmmm dough. He squints at it all, especially at the bottle. Probably trying to read the label.

"Yeah no, didn't get you one of my best wine, not sorry."  
"Hot pepper… juice?" He looks at the actual peppers next to it. "With actual peppers?" And then I get the squint too.  
"Hmph, I know you like your elongated hell tomatoes, man, what can i say."

At that, a feeble snort.  
I decide that it is the highlight victory of my soirée.

"Welp, have at it." I gesture to the half-liter liquor glass right by his left.  
He fumbles with the drinks and some splashes around, but I lay back on my chair, arms crossed, letting him do his thing. While I don't hold back from growing downright doting on him when I got to- or even when I don't- I don't see how more devotion right now would be not smothering. He can break my fancy glass cups if he wants and spill my milk, so long he doesn't cut himself or cry over it.

Now, you could be thinking that plain water would have done the trick just fine, if not better, in rehydrating him. Here's the thing, though; going from booze to tasteless liquid, for Shane, that's a sure way to puking his heart out. And I'd rather not have us deal with an acid bile throat burn on top of near alcohol poisoning. Sorry to not spare you the squeamish details, but his oesophagus is pretty sensitive ever since that stomach pumping back at the clinic. Hot fiery hell fruits he can do just fine, with relative moderation and hydratation- hence the milk and juice- but liquor bursting its way back from his guts? Nuh uh. 

It had taken lots of coaxing, but he'd explained the plain tastes, or lackthereof, were very hard for him to deal with, especially when contrasting with strong ones like beers and whiskeys. I'd shackle it to gustative hypostimulation, but I don't know enough about him that way to say. He'd said sparkling water was a good compromise.

But I don't have sparkling water, because I do not like suffering.

I might buy a pack for when he visits though.  
And I do know a handful about him already. Shackle that to perceptiveness and a stubborn streak on top of a year and so long camaraderie.

And having a certain uncontrollable fear of failing to act quick the next time coped with by accumulating information and patterns compulsively.

I shake my head to focus on the present again. He's switched from juices to soaking bread in milk to eat it small portion after small portion. He pauses in mid-bite when he catches me staring. He's still hunched on himself and red-faced and a tad bloated. His cheeks are drying and he's blown his nose. I smile calmly. Worst of the storm passed, unless I screw up and blow it.

"Ywou wan' chom'?" He offers a dripping piece of bread. In moments like this, when he's sobering but not quite, the resemblance with Jas are unmistakable. The glint in his reddened eyes that open wide, and his blank-but-not-quite wondering expression, it's all here to paint a scrutinizing but vulnerable picture of tired but bright minds.

"Nah thanks. You done with that milk?"  
"...Sure." He eyes it, wary. He knows where this is going, and he doesn't like it. I take the drink off the table, and his gaze follows my movement until I bring it to my lips.  
He frowns. A silent warning.  
And as I lock onto him with a dead stare, not blinking a millisecond, I down the rest of the 2 liters jug in three, five gulps. I even take the time to lick my new mustache away, and close my mouth with a click of my tongue.  
His expression is the macabre marriage of beffudled horror and pure affliction, disgust if you will. The face of someone who doesn't hate milk, but has grown out of it enough to not be able to live off the stuff like the brave souls I'm apart of. And probably with reason, as I actually can't, like most 20+ years old, digest the liquid in large amount. But I smile like a smug cat, perfectly content.

Cats really can't digest milk once adults, it's all social mythos.

We silently judge and fuck with each other like that for a while more, as more time passes, until the room's elephant gets it all humid with its nosy prancing around. Enough that tears and nervous sweats start again, for no apparent reasons but the residual anxiety from the whole chain of events that led to this.

"I think we should talk about this."

\---


	2. A bitch bastard man and a bitch walk into a room...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to draw the art scene for this chapter before posting it. But I decided against it, because I'm already working on chapter 4, so...
> 
> More discussion of addiction and references to Shane's attempt(s) will be made more clearly from then on. Slight panic attack too, and the tags about self-esteem get their warrant.
> 
> Plus unsanitary cat and emetophobia warning. Jesus that's a lot of warnings.
> 
> Also, meme and friendship! Memeship, if you will.
> 
> Safe and nice reading to you!

"I think we should talk about this."

If the room was stifled before, this just causes the pin to drop, and the relative lull to shatter with it. I don't want a storm, but we can't pretend the sea's a slightly oversized pond if we want him not drowning in it- again, my mind supplies, unhelpful.

He's zoning out again, blurry eyes pointedly off me, preferring the turned-off TV.

Let's start easy. "Why did you come here, Shane?"  
"I-I-" It sounds like an excuse building up and it bubbles out like a shaken can, "I don't- I shouldn't have-" he goes to up and leave, and we just can't have that.

I scrape my chair closer and grab his shoulder, same as before. Hopefully it's more placating than caging. "No, you should have. You did good. Seeking out, remember?" 

He doesn't answer but stills.

"Like Dr.Campbell and Harvey said." I try again.  
"Yeah… Yeah." Deep breathing. "I. Don't know." He searches for my face, not quite past the nose. I nod, ushering him on. "It's. Stupid." I frown and my eyebrow goes higher than before and he immediately doubles down. "I know- positiv' reinforchment and all that shit! But… It's hard." A tired hand wipes the most of moisture off his face, before it goes back to wriggle with the other on his lap. "It's so fuckin' hard. Didn't even last two seasons!-"

I cut him off. "Two seasons is a lot! One and a half too. Last time, you'd tried to go cold turkey on the spot. We know what that got us." Sea foam in the mouth and a shared cold in the early spring, on top of a Joja lawsuit. "Shit's hard, like you said. You lasted one and a half this time. Next time-"

"Why the fuck do you always think there's gonna be a next time."  
This time, I still. My laidback demeanor mirror his, but so does the cold anger creeping in and tensing both our backs.  
"Because. There is going to be a next time. And another after that. And another. Same way there's been next times before this one now."

What's left unsaid we don't touch. 

All irritation floods from him like it's just pointless to keep it in anymore, and his forehead goes to thunk softly against the wooden surface he leaned on before. The table muffles his next words a little.  
"I can't… keep doing that." I don't peep. "I can't keep rolling back down and then up and down, and up, and down. I- I just can't, Garcia- Uidel-"  
"I'll drag you there." I shrug.  
"But you shouldn't have to!" His voice raises and make the boards vibrate where his skin's still pressed. "You shouldn't have to-to fuckin'-" he sniffles, the following words drowned out in held-back sobs. "Fuck damn it, you- I said I- I wouldn't be a burden anymore!"

He's crying out loud now, open sorrow and no walls left. Out of all the things you could stick on the not-so amiable man sulking straight from bed to Jojamart to Stardrop Saloon to bed, you probably wouldn't think of "extreme scare of bothering anyone". Yet it's all here in how he collapses silently in the mattress, wake without a sound, keep his head down the whole time he crosses town, tries to merge himself in the fake-nice blue of the shelves at work, then corners himself right between the chimney and the bar on Emily's side, stuck in-between two sources of warmth that can never touch him unless he swings one way or the other. And he doesn't a lot, still keeping to himself strictly. You probably wouldn't think either of how dreamy he gets, hidden in his alcove but seeing everything from there.

When Harvey nerds out about classical, jazz and electro swing music down the bar to me, trying to catch me up on my fuzzy memories of arts history and the implications of breaking codes in the tempo and the leisure of each instruments; of how each note gets a specific response from the brain if done right, and can make up for caffeine deprivation in miraculous ways, when there are no more chances to push back the dread of midterms season at doctor school.

When Elliott, boisterous and drunk, arm-on-arm with an equally inebriated Leah, calls out to the whole place to hear out his latest soliloquy, and drags on the words too much, but with a voice that carries it well, all flamboyance and no limits, as his hair floats around him in a crown and he reigns over the room like a kind lion- Description all intoxicated words from your chicken man truly, not mine. I always get too caught up in the pendulum of Leah's braid and her crooked smile to quite appreciate his theatrics. But the recital rings clear, and everyone applauds the performance- because hey, you applaud a drunk guy showing off the prowess of not tripping a single word in a ten minutes tirade, but also because it really is that good! Everyone, even Shane, whose hands zipped to under his armpits the moment our eyes crossed and I met his pink cheeks with a clairvoyant smile. 

Hey, what can I say. Dude's a sapiosexual. Hence why we'll never and cannot bang. That, and, uh, the being lesbian thing.

But all this is closed off and not for anyone to see behind see-through fogged windows, like those kitchen cabinets, when you can make out the piled plates all resting against the cold surface precariously, bound to crash and shatter the moment you open them.

It took a good wrecking ball of a fake-oblivious polite faced stranger and my incessant, hot pepper poppers-powered pestering, to even just crackles the glass.

The rest was all done out of his own volition. He can't see that because alcohol is a depressant, and guzzling it down leads to blurry concepts made softer always and pretty much lush in brain, and when he's off the thing, and that's rare, he instantly goes from not there to thinking he's everywhere, soiling everything and giving nothing.

His sobbing doesn't relent, and he whimpers issues of "trustworthy sack of shit", "not being worth the fucking shrink's money", "not being worth his aunt's troubles", "not being worth Jas". At some point he goes to grapple with his hair, and tugs brusquely once, then twice, then I have to reach for his wrist to make him stop, which he snatches back as soon as I make contact. But he doesn't grab anything to pull or pinch or punch again, so that's good. I stay on standby beside him, but don't touch him. He rasps more condemnations, struggles to breathe enough through the phlegm spreading in his respiratory system, and I start reenacting the steps to stop a hyperventilation in my head, and the first aid for choking, when he begins to cough violently, his entire frame upset with the movement.

He takes the tissue box i nudge with insistence toward him, and ends up spitting mouthfuls of mucus mixed with some bile in the basin under his feet. Most of it is clear and smells of fruits, not beer, so I'm not too worried. When I go to stabilize him by taking his shoulders, he grasps at my wrists to stop me- but let them stay here, while he clings. The tremors get to me now, and I remind myself that this is good, this is before the cliffs and him finding refuge to burst open, not glassily stare at the weeping clouds as he blabbers on the meaninglessness of his life.  
This is… very alive.  
I ought to be glad.

I let him come down at his rhythm, counting the pulses of his wrists as I feel mine numb with the blood circulation slowed down under his hold.

When he's back with a mind, I count to three, then let go. His arms flop back down, on his lap and hands dangling between his tighs. He blows his nose again.

"I'm so pathetic…"  
"Yeah sure, and I'm a serial prom queen."

Instead of jabbing back and forth, we get interrupted by a soft mewling. Both of us turn to the door, that's opened slightly to let in Eryza, the pitter-patter of her paws on the stone flooring the only sound for a moment…  
As we both stare in revulsion at her jaw, a single line of vomit dripping of it.

Shane puts his head down in shame, not even having the strenght to hide further.  
"Sorry."  
"Nah, 's okay. She's already trash, anyway."

Eryza edges closer and rapidly tour around our legs- going back to Shane's feet twice, her whiskers tickling his exposed ankles. Purring loudly, she completely ignore my chastizing as I threaten to make her diet periwinkle-based to counter-act her literal potty mouth, and she scampers to do who-knows-what in the rooms.

"Your vibes are rancid, do you hear me?? Rancid, girl!" I call after her. "I swear to Yoba, Shane, your aunt might as well have brought me a raccoon."  
Turning back to him, I can see the short-lived humor of the situation was, well, short-lived. I sigh.

It's late. We're both tired. Tomorrow is sunday. It's cool. We've got time.

I don't sit back down right away. First, I put a hand down on the nape of his neck, that slides to the top of his scalp, right where he'd tug. My quota, remember?  
He sniffles some, a few teardrops make their way to the planks, unheard. We stay like this for a moment.  
He doesn't shake me off, but in the slow tandem his body takes, rocking lightly from back to forth, I can tell it's enough, for now. 

I sit back down on my chair.

I lean on the hand I'd put in his dark purple strands before, smelling cedar wood and pine trees. I don't assume. My farm has plenty of those to stumble through. And even if he went back to the cliff, another time again. I do that too. With my own cliffs back at not-home, but close. There's a sense, in staring down what couldn't take you.  
Like visiting a scene crime that you've narrowly escaped from. And pride too. And the thrill of asking- "what if again? What if this time?"- and okay, I can see why it'd be worrying to have him go there a thrice time on his own late in the evening.

But last time was fine, the one before was made fine, and he might need a bitch for a friend right now, but not a watchdog.

His forehead is back against the table.

Three fingers massage my temple. I don't know how much he'll even remember tomorrow, but it's worth the try, always.  
"Shane, dude, look at me." He doesn't.  
"Dude."  
Still doesn't budge. I knock the wood lightly.  
"Yo, punk, my eyes are up here." I joke.  
He snorts, or maybe he sniffles, and his chin's now resting on the table, peering through the forgotten drinks to watch me. His hands are hidden, probably still clutching his midsection. If I went on a rollercoaster toasted, I'd probably look the exact same.

"I told you before that you literally couldn't be a burden."  
He snorts for sure this time, derisive. I knock wood again. "Don't look away from me when I talk, young man. Rude ass punk."  
"Bitch." He throws.  
"Bitch bastard man." I send back. "Anyways, as I was saying. If I choose you're my dumb of ass to keep around, that's me, that's my decision. You can't burden me if I choose the hard mode package and roll with it. So stop it. I literally told you before, it's not about you not making efforts or burdening people, it's about people who want to deal with you, out of free will."  
"Freaky."  
"Oh shut up, you dramatic himbo wannabe."  
"A what now?"  
"Internet slang. Gotta admit you're closer to a dad bod type, but the energy's here, according to many."  
He shuffles, self-conscious. "Y'don't need to remind me…"  
"Oh hush you, you're perfectly fine. And Elliott would eat his dumb little lobster and pomegranate toasts off that belly if you'd grow out of your own shell and let him."  
He sputters unintelligibly, red as a fecking pepper. Good. Flustered is better than self-depreciating.

But now he's pulled on his hood and the strings all the way out, and resumes to chanting me to fuck off, so that might be a good call for a break.

"I'm gonna change and clean up, you need anything? Do you think you'll go back to the ranch, or stay here for the night?" It's happened before, but you can count them on the fingers of one hand.

A long silence follows and I allow myself a quick look in the mirror. Yeah, we're skipping a shower tonight, but the simple hairbrush will not do. I look like a bird's nest that the birds fought in to know who'd keep the children when bird 2 takes off and bird 1 is left to mourn the empty space that'll never fill up the same again and the good times that won't be- wow, trauma lane much, not now, cowpal. First we buckle up our current rodeo. I walk back to the main room, now pajama-clad.

"I've got the beds for the possible kids up there, don't ask me why Robin put so many there, we're two people in a house, and I can lend you a Tee if you want."

He's anxious, chewing his thumb. "Emily won't mind?"  
"She's out, sleeping at Haley's tonight. Girls' night and sisters catching up. It's important for her energy flow and karmic balance. Plus, you know she wouldn't mind, she likes you."  
That makes him blush more, covering up the alcohol damage enough. I take note, but don't comment. Things for later. They pile up tonight.

"I- I can't go back to the ranch like this."  
"You could. Marnie knows better than act as if you're doing this for fun, now. She'd have to understand. But you don't have to." I reassure him when agitated pupils jump up to me. Let's keep that ongoing panic attack at bay. "Either way, I won't mind."

I sit back. Stretch my arms between us. Catch his worrying hands into mine. Give him a squeeze. Tense appendages don't squeeze back, but don't pull back either. That's half a win. He stops torturing the poor things, and unfold with visible effort, like a crumpled up paper flower put on water. His head shakes, and I can't tell if it's conscious, him speaking with himself or trying to shake off a thought, or just a reflex. He visibly forces his shoulders to relax. 

"I'm… not bothering you?" Righteous. Seeking vocal positive reinforcement, like a pro.  
"Nope." I pop out the 'p'.  
"... I think I'll, uh, stay for tonight."

My hands shoot into the air. "Woo! Sleepover, baby!"

I don't catch his hands curling back on themselves, trying to capture that leftover warmth in the late summer night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our man over here yearns for physical contact, even if reluctant to open up. It's the Touch Starvation TM.
> 
> Expect the next chapter in less than a week.  
> Thanks for reading! Let me know about anything on the fic!


	3. A close shave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More antics, this time with daddy issues talk! More properly referred as "fatherly abuse and neglect resulting in deep-seated trauma you belittle as a funney trope to cope with". 
> 
> Yeah.
> 
> Farmer gives some big talk about alcoholism and such. I'm no doctor but I am not pulling this out of nowhere, you can verify most stuff. I encourage seeking professional help or actual research if you need serious advice on your own issues, though.
> 
> Also, I forgot to add the trans Shane tag. Will do. We transgendering here.
> 
> Onward!

Chapter 3. Close shave.

The rest of the evening could be uneventful and see us both to bed. 

But I don't feel right this way, that there are still things left unsaid.  
I'm about to have him borrow oversized shirts and trunks, when I stop my motion.

He stops too, limbs hovering in the air, unsure. He looks back to the door, probably thinking I'll throw him out on a whim because he blinked too loudly, the fool. The absolute buffon. I lock my eyes with him.

"You don't think I could try my hand at giving you a quick clean-up, do you?"  
His expression is quizzical at best. I point and tap at my chin. He touches his, drying eyes lighting up in recognition- before growing dim in embarrassment.

"I haven't gotten to it- didn't have the time, or…"  
"Or the energy, uh."  
He grows somber. "Yeah." A beat. "Haven't had much for anything, lately."  
"I've heard you'd been putting in doubles at work."  
"Y-yeah, got to earn my check and focus on something else, somehow. Who told you, though?" He's looking suspicious, but genuinely curious, too. Looking forward to know who talks about him in his absence, as if he's not to be remembered, usually.  
"Friday night. Em' was pouty you weren't there- even if she completely understand, she just says she could totally limit you to fruit juice and soda if needed, a pizza on top- she really misses you, though, man. Drop by when she's off the clock if you can. So she was being all pouty and loud- like an actual child after we didn't answer the first time, whining and everything- she's so cute, I swear to fucking Yobs' I don't deserve her- and well, Sam and Seb answered."  
"Sam? And his goth boyfriend? They talk about me?"  
"They're not boyfriends yet and you know it, you mean hypocrite joth. Anyway, yeah, they do."  
"Really?"  
"Yah really! Unprompted too, when they hang, and you're in the main room, sometimes Seb'll even comment on your ass-"  
"Oh shut up." He looks pissy, ready to clam up. He clutches the impromptu pajamas, taking out his building irritation on it. Abort, abort.  
"He did! Okay, part because he wants to fucks with Sam- not literally, I mean yes- Stop looking like that, you sly dog!-"  
"S-sly dog?" He's choking on his own laughter now, the bastard man. Fucker.  
"But part serious too! He means it when he says it."  
"Oh really, now."  
"I mean yeah, or he would not comment on your 'well angled face' or your 'even nose that clashes with clear eyes', and-"  
"He does? Really? He says that?"  
"Boy your eyeballs get any wider they'll pop out of your head- but yes he did."  
"So the resident goth compliments my ass and my face and you've never told me?"  
"Yeah, both- or I don't know, maybe he confuses them together, I wouldn't blame him- ow!" He slapped my arm! Kitten strength, but still!  
"Fuck you, you deserved it. But you serious?"  
"Yah."  
"Damn."

I shrug, non-committal. "I don't know man, apparently you're hot."  
"Apparently-" He goes to put mocking emphasis on it- and I think it goes from sarcasm to genuine laughter, bubbling up like a tickle.  
"You good, man?"  
"The- the-ahah- the town goth *snort* the- eheheh! town goth thinks I have- that I have a nice ass!"  
"And a nice face!"   
"The town goth-" he freaking chortles- "likes my buttface!" He's stifling his giggles in the fabrics.  
"He does!"

Ever since Em's clothes therapy, when he went out without a fear in the world in his full leather attire with an actually great make-up, well. Sebastian was going home from Sam's, apparently struggled to alight his smoke and crossed path with Abigail, fully fledged in armor. He ended up seeing Shane. And dropped his cig from his mouth. Abby wouldn't stop laughing about it. 

The way she recounted the story was hilarious too.   
How mortified Sebastian got was just a supplement cheer.

Nearly as cheery as Shane right now. Although it borders on manic by the second.

Point in case, as he tries to walk out to put on his things, he trips over his feet in a hiccup, and I don't have time to react before he falls forward.  
He does though, and the clothes drop to the floor while he latches onto me, and readjust himself.   
Well. That's a first.  
"Nice catch." I say.  
"Sure, got a lot of experience."  
"In getting back on your feet?"   
"In walking around my drunk ass."  
"..."  
"Okay, in getting back to my feet too." He's muttering at the end, absolutely bashful.  
His grip lingers and tightens. He gets his footing back, and shuffles closer. The clothes remain crumpled in a mess between us.

That's definitely new.

"Th-."

"Thanks you." 

I look down at his bowed head. He's going to get a crick in the neck with all this facing down. "Sure. It's a big deal to me."

A flinch. Inhale. Exhale. "Y-yeah. Thanks for. That, too."  
"Anytime."

He lets go, and wobbles out of the threshold we'd been blocking off for a good two minutes now. I'm left there, winded.

He'd made progress. 

I feel myself getting misty eyed, and we can't have that.   
I sweep my vanity as a I head for the "bathroom corner" of the house, and start setting it up. A comfy stool- as comfy a stool can get-, lukewarm water in a small tub- I don't know, reflex, and he might appreciate the chance to clean his face up first-, my shaving tools and some ointments in case I fuck up and cut him.

I'm hands on my hips feeling big and stuff when a thought strikes me and I feel High Stupid. His ankle! He fucked it up and we've got to see to that. He definitely doesn't feel it right now thanks to the intoxication, but if the redness is any hint, he'll definitely do tomorrow morning.

I get an ice pack and a towel out, throw some painkillers on top of that- I'll need to read the description for the alcohol compatibility. And, just in case, for safety, a thermometer. And a brace I kept from my time before the farm. We'll make it work.

He hobbles back not long after. He stops to stare at the little scene unfolded for him.  
"Well. Okay."  
As soon as he settles, I hand him his half liter glass full of apple juice. He takes and drink it diligently, aa I reach for my little Peep- like, the marshmallows Peeps- sponges and give him one, before I soak mine and dab at his ankle. Getting through the dirt to see the damage more clearly, then I'll act accordingly.

"It's a little chick sponge…?"  
"Yah. Super adorbs and that absorbs? Couldn't resist."  
He stares at it for ages, completely enraptured. I think he might just tear up again,and honestly, same.  
When he starts poking at it and getting his- well everything, wet, instead of his face, though, I intervene.  
"That's for your face, buddy. Need the grime off if we want to avoid your peachfuzz getting infected."  
"Peachfuzz, pfft- hey, what're y'doin'?"  
"Finishing up cleaning your fucked up foot so I can see how bad it is. You fell before, remember?"  
"... Huh." Hm. That's not worrying, but it's definitely a bother. If tomorrow Shane can't make head or tail of his injury, he might aggravate him. "Ok. Is it good?"  
"Lemme check- Fuck. I think it might be sprained. In doubt, try to avoid putting weight on it, 'kay, but we'll see Harvey about it tomorrow."  
He contemplate that statement for a long moment. Then, he closes his eyes, and draws a long-suffering sigh. "Buh. Life."

We do our thing in silence, and fast enough, we're ready for the next steps.   
I go to wrap it up in gauze, so he doesn't get calluses, and then get a spark of concern. I take the pill box and cross-read it.  
"Shit. I can't give you these for the following six hours. Let me get you some arnigel." I do just that before I'm back and speeding up my process. His eyes are droopy.  
"I've taken pills while drunk before."  
"Yeah? Well you should stop, or like, check if it's risky." He blows a raspberry at that. Real mature. "Shane. I would like it if you showed the care of checking, or didn't take possibly conflicting substances at all."  
He's evidently startled, and tries to brush me off again. "Urg, fine, damn. I'll- I'll do that, okay? No need to be so formal."  
"Hm."

By the time we've gotten to the actual shaving, my clock reads ten past midnight. Not nearly as late as I usually stay up during work days, but for some reason, I feel the beginning of exhaustion creeping in.

He's not comfortable with his shirt off, so, to avoid sending him off to bed scratchy and hair covered, I drape him in my largest- and incidentally, heaviest towel. He reacts with a full-body plop forward and sighs, as that. I arch an eyebrow, but make no remark. He doesn't seem to have noticed himself relaxing, and the guy has the worst case of self-consciousness.

"Do you want me to do your hair, too?"  
"... Sure." And so I start with that.   
It's mostly trimming, and some areas of his shaven head not being as closely shortened as others, so I even them out. Then, I put that razor down and grab the fancier one, one of these three-head-shaving-round-thingy that can rotate and are more efficient to deal with a 5'o'clock shadow. Let's make his a 3'o'clock at best.   
Some parts of his jaws are bruised and cut in, nearly imperceptible. No idea what could do that, out of all the troubles one could get into in the valley. I do spot a few scars that look old enough to have him drive on a tricycle, though. Interesting.  
For as "touchy-feely" as I might be, this is the second time only I see him so closely. The first thing that makes itself clear is that he could use a shower, and some triple sleep to deal with these bruises under falling close lashes. Second is the small details like these from before, inconspicuous and of relative relevance, that pile up hazardously to make a man standing before me.

A man that, aside from nodding off the more I make an advance on his own bird nest, looks deep in thought. The permanent frown he sports in town has progressively made itself back home, ridding him of all precedent tired nonchalance.

"Somethin' chewing you out?"

"... Just. Troubles on my mind."  
"Troubles?"  
"..." Ah. From his face, he probably didn't mean to say that. "Slip of the tongue. Thinkin' of… Marnie, the ranch, and uh, Jas'... college funds."  
"Woah, this far ahead?"  
"Uh, yeah? College's expensive shit. 'S not like your ways back home in your small country with social security, here." He's right. I bite my lip, chastised. "Sorry… Didn't mean to harsh you out… 'S just… It worries me, y'know?" I nod. I do know. The Perreños ranch is not doing the best, wasn't even before I came in in concurrence. Although I do make a good patronage, with how often I lamely plan ahead and need feed in emergency. "And- and here I am, sucking that damn funds like- like some kinda leech! I even had stopped properly compensating Tía there for a moment, when I was…"  
"At your worse."  
"At my worse." This gives him pause. "I was at my worse…" I completely miss the ask for reassurance here. "I-I was, this was my worse, right?" I'm not still stuck there, right, that was before, right?  
I startle, stricken. "Oh! Oh sure, no, you were! You definitely were terrible, like, that's gone now-" I stumble on my words, and shit, it just doesn't come out right.  
"That's gone, now, uh… You always do that… Make it sound like it wasn't me."  
"Well. It wasn't. Like, don't get me wrong, it was you that took your first ration, and kickstarted the machine, but that- that's more than individual." The vrrrrr of the razor fills in the beats that take my brain to provide the rest of my sociology-fed monologue.  
"There's a collective push to consume, especially alcohol and all drugs in general, but alcohol moreso, due to it being a very social beverage- what I mean to say is, on top of the addictive component of that whole equation to consider, there are other factors, that involves your own responsibility, yes. But there is also the responsibility and weight of the whole institution around booze and shit, and peer pressure, and…"

I hesitate.

"And I've met your father." A dire moment of needing support on his part, and a very good flair and improvisation at being a Cis Straight Girl ™ on mine. Overall, displeasing. "I know where that first impulse could come from." At the mention of that deadbeat of an old man, Shane tenses, but nod. His fist closes tightly. I stop.  
"You aren't like him." I turn his head to look back at me, as I bend myself around him.  
"You're nothing like him. That's not what I'm saying at all, Shane. Social reproduction, mimetism or determinism or anything you wanna fucking call it, isn't cloning or rehashing. It's not a fate thing, it's a 'fucking hell so that's where it came from, I'm not the one birthing this hell, I'm born into it and that's why I try to get out against all odds' thing. You're not like your 'dad'." I say, final, making the air quotes stand out.

He looks downward, removing his chin from my fingers, unconvinced.

"Shane. If you were the same as him for drinking, of all things, then I'm the same as mine, for being a bag of dicks jumping to any occasion to brawl."  
He swings his head around back at me so fast he's probably given himself whiplash. "That is not the same!" Shane has, the lucky one, also had the fortune of meeting my own genitor, although not in person. He pointedly remembers the diatribe the man had made in defense of disciplining children the rough way to ensure of their behaving. That had made him sick, unable to look at me in the eye for the following week or so. Which was maybe the actual worst part about it all.

He might or might not have called me a 'spoiled, sheltered unknowing fucking rich prick of a lecturer' not too long before that. 

Gods, I am glad that the old fucker died. Finally some actual fucking justice.

Shane of now is also looking queasy. "It's not-It's not the same-"  
"It so is. Let's make it real uncomfortable but real quick, will yah? Let's talk psychobiology" I might as well have said a slur. There are two weaknesses to Shane's stronghold on his apathetic self. Good old hard science, to make up for his nihilism that desperately needs hard proof, hence his dislike of beliefs and magic mumbo jumbo, and psychology presented as hard science, because it threatens the very source of the first reason. His why-he-is-nihilistic. Dude went ballistic the first time I suggested he might be depressed.  
"So let's talk epigenetics and traumatism. My father was a dirty fucker whose main kink must have been making people suicidal for his power trips. A history of violence against kids can be traced back all the way to six generation prior. I'm violent, due to lived trauma, but also epi-trauma, because we've learned to be quick to hit, slow to think, so well, it ingrained our DNA. Does that make me an abusive fucklick by essence, because it's in my blood, hypothetically, to react like a little shit?"  
"No!" He blanches at the mere question. I'm touched.  
"So. Your father was a drunk asshole who was an asshole because he treated everyone, you included, like shit, not because he drunk. But alcoholism and violence-induced trauma do impact DNA, and I'm betting there's a string of violent men and alcoholism in the Perreño lineage?"  
He gulps down bile and nods. He tries to look away but I walk around him and crouch to stay in front of him.  
"So, we know there's fuckall evidence to brain sex, so that raises the first question: how the fuck is that not the same for the women? Then there's you."  
He begrudgingly smiles, and nods again. "With the whole trans stuff."  
"True, with the whole trans stuff. You're not your father's son, you're your own fucking son, dude, he didn't know shit about raising a child, much less a son."  
"I… Hadn't thought of it like that."  
I tap my index against my forehead. "It's all about being bonkers; you're stuck outside the box." He snorts. I get back up and to business.

"So. My point is. Maybe it's in your DNA to feel like shit because it's been generations of people feeling like shit. Maybe it's education. Maybe you've got a higher risk of falling for booze than I, or someone else do. But your acts are your own. Bad and good. You're not your fucking father's copy. I told you before."

He's rubbing at his face, angled down again. I don't listen to the wet sounds he makes. "And straighten me that back, dangit. You're going to be benched by thirty, and I can't do a straight job like this!'

"Pssht, as if you could do any job straight." Sends us both into a fit of giggles, like stupid kids making really done-before gay jokes.

To finish with a nice touch, I hand him a little canister of homemade cream- a simple ointment to rehydrate and refresh the skin Em and I used kale, corn oil and some other farm produces to make. It had ravished everyone at the gym class. Harvey couldn't stop making comments about the clever association of vitamin bases and the cleansing properties of the ingredients. That really helped selling the deal- they were gifts, though, so it was half in the bag already.  
It was all Emily, really, I'm not the Biology minor of the couple.

He watches the little can with unease. Like he's not sure he needs it, and it won't be a waste. I know that because he looks at his anxiolytic medication the same exact way. And quite frankly, fuck that.

"C'mon now, I can pinky-swear it won't lower your T levels even if you use the gurly creaaam now-"  
He huffs, embarrassed. "Pssht shut up, you know I don't think like that!"   
"You kinda do, sometimes." Not often, but it's true he does.  
He's confided to me that, once upon a darker time, he was even a truscum. Dark ages from 'before [he] took [his] head out of [his] ass and stopped caring so much about how others lived' because it was already hard enough for him to care about how he lived.  
Which, oof.

Anyway, got him! He's now carefully applying cream on his freshly shaved face with the dexterity of a five years old discovering his mom's make up set.  
"Stop staring at me like that, you weirdo!" I expertly avoid his small kick, and point to his face, mine sporting an impish smile.  
"You left a bit, here."  
He tries and kick me again. And fails.

When he's all clean and proper- or like, more than before- he smothers himself in a towel, before facing me again. The brace is on, and his bed's made.

I serve him another apple juice.   
"If I wake you up when I go take a leak, it's on you."  
"Yeah yeah, as I said, I take the whole dumb of ass package, it is on me."   
He pssht me, flushed again.  
And with how drunk he was- and is still going to be till tomorrow, realistically, alcohol doesn't burn through the system so fast when it's used to taking residency here- I doubt he'll really have any bathroom issues tonight. They're right by the kid's room, anyway.

"Okay." He stands with greater effort than before, sobriety coming with aches.  
"Just lean on me on the way there." And he does, no fight left in him.  
"Thanks… Again. For all this."  
"You're welcome."

It takes some cursing and five minutes to get there, but soon enough, I'm closing his door and joking about tucking him in, narrowly escaping a gridball-experienced throw of a cat toy as I exit scene, cackling.

I'm sobering too, quickly, when I get to bed myself.  
It's closer to twenty-five past one in the morning, now.  
The bed is big, and the sheets empty.  
I try to soothe the late night anxiety, and let myself slip into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you don't roast and life coach your pal as you guide him away from debilitating bad coping habits and disregard for his health and comfort, then what's the point?
> 
> Anyways, drink your water- if you don't have a sensory repulsion to it.


	4. Knocked on wood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *looks at the +5 pages of development compared to the previous some-paragraphs-stacked- together chapters*
> 
> I know pacing.  
> I just don't practice it.
> 
> *Veers off in a complete barrel roll after swinging around a bit*  
> Tonight on That One Fic Where The Author Projects And Stuffs In As Many HCs as possible in one go,  
> \- serious panic attack resulting in: more crying, heavy suicidal ideation, self-berating intrusive thoughts, near asphyxiation, nonverbal and unorthodox behaviours.  
> \- happy ending.  
> \- more "friends messing around with each other and are you sure they're not related they emit the same Dummy Feral energy?"  
> \- Hispanic Mestizo Shane even though I hc Stardew Valley's world as not being quite Earth, ie. the US and UK don't quite exist- Or maybe they're the empires at war?  
> \- at the very least, they have different animes.
> 
> Oh and, POV changes. We start with Shane having, uh. A time of his life. Dw, he'll have others.  
> Well, onward!

I can't sleep. I can't sleep, and I'm thirsty again. There's a water bottle on the nightstand, that they probably left there. I don't wanna drink it. It'll make me sick.

I can't sleep, I'm thirsty again, there's a water bottle at arm length, and I don't want to drink it.

I'm a fucking piece of shit.

…  
No.  
I'm a fucking piece of shit who's trying not to be one.  
There, better. Positive reinforcement. Nailed it. They would be so proud of me.

There's a pang in my chest, akin to empty air spikes more than the actual pinches in the lungs that alcoholism produces. Something to do with hypertension.

Who's "they"?  
The therapist? Marnie? Jas? Her parents? Emily? Fuck-all-society? Pelican Town's happy level? … No, maybe the town could actually use less soggy jerkwad- ah wait, no, veering off course again. …  
Dad? Would he care? Would I?  
Would anyone.

Fuck.  
I'm spiraling again.

I've got troubles to breath. The spikes are intensifying, it feels like holes in my ribs.

Would the farmer-  
Farmer.  
Garcia.  
I need Garcia's help.  
I can't breath.  
"F-fuck-" I try to get up, my feet tangle in the sheets. I think I panic, and I end up dangling half off the mattress, clutching the frame to avoid a crash.

It takes harsh puffs of air and jelly like limbs trying to unfold themselves for what feels like hours to get up. I can't feel my legs- except for that ankle I screwed up. Shit smarts. Ahah. Smarts. Smart feet, that's what you've got, not smarts, smart feet. That's all it takes to be a rancher boy or a mart's employee. Smart feet and hands, not smart smarts, even though with all the beer you live on, even those become idiots, and keep dropping crap and damaging boxes and fruits, and that's right, Shaney boy, you'll ruin everything you touch, because you're a Perreño, and that's why we fuck with people, not let them fuck us, and we don't play girly being all delicate and shit, and aren't you proud of being grown up and big just like me-

No. No no no shit fuck damn it, we've said no, that's not it, that's not how it works, and it's not true, and fuck him, fuck me, but no- Garcia says real shit, they're a fricking nerd about that shit, they can hold a conversation with Harvey, and they make clever puns- clever puns! It's like unicorns, but words!- that make Em and Leah and Elliott laugh! They know shit. I need- I need to breathe.

I'm coughing hard into my elbow, trying to keep in the sound- but I'm about to wake them up, anyways, so what's the point? What a needy fuck anyways, why- no, they said it was alright, right? That they'd- they'd pick me up and drag me up there, out of the hole, when I can't climb out.  
They said that.  
People say so many things.

Why do they do this shit, anyways? I think they've told me, but I can't remember. My head's full of fog. I think of curling in a ball as tight as I could, and stop breathing, just stop trying, but I can't- I can't do that. We've said I'd get better. If I did that, I'd be wasting everyone's time. The therapy hours that could have gone to someone else, the money spent, the- the medical bills, the damn medical bills that Garcia paid for me, after the cliffs! 

The cliffs. I went back to the cliffs. Not to stay. Just to see. To make sure. I don't know. I drank. I drank at the ranch, not much, but it'd been so long. It's like I'd never tried before. It's like it was the first time all over again.

My vision tunnels, and I hunch over myself as I trip to the door- fucking foot. I don't even want to think about what I'll do about that on monday. But I do, because I hate myself, and myself hates me, and it's all I can think of eventually.

I can't not work. If I don't, Morris'll dock my paycheck, and if he does, I can't pay back the beer I bought, and it's bucks I can't give back to Jas and Tía, and-  
It's what I talked about, what I meant to say, with Garcia. Drinking, it's. It's not just bad it's expensive the therapy's expensive the hospital bills the drive to the fucking therapist's expensive everything is expensive! Everything is too much.

It's too much.  
I can't breathe.  
I can't move, I can't breathe, I can't sleep and I can't drink unless it's burning me.  
I'm an idiot.  
I'm not allowed to say it out loud but it's the truth, I'm a fucking idiot.

I'm staring at the door with 'Just married just shagged!' sign. On the door. The door to Emily's and Garcia- Uidel's room.  
I think I've started to cry. I can't tell because my cheeks are hot, and I can't feel my toes but I don't know if it's the cold or the panic attack- that's what it is, right, that's- I'm not doing this on purpose, I swear, I'm not stupid, I swear-

"Grblg-!" I gulp down an oncoming sob- it's horrible, it feels like being strangled. But I can't wake them, can I-? I can't. I think I. I think I need to, but…

I think about the medication left behind, on the counter, out of the locked cabinet, the medication that's not compatible with alcohol. I think of taking it, of taking the whole box, of shallowing it dry, and of growing numb, numb, and painless, and- cold body on the floor bile spilling out of its mouth eyes probably still opened staring up leaning on the floor under the counter where the beer pack sit with the opened can on its lonesome, I could drink the pills with the beer, and, cold and sleeping body on the floor, for Uid- Garcia- the Farmer to find in the morning-

What is wrong with me??

"Ah-aaaaaagh- uh, ghh-" I clamp my hands on my mouth, trying to keep the gross noises in. It's already bad enough I ended back here at this house- Drunk Shane really has just the stupidest ideas- including not just jumping and asking for an outsider's opinion- No! I can't think like that, this is exactly why I'm in this position now!

Why can't I stop it! The shrink said something about the illusion of control, deep meditation, self-awareness and goddamn breathing exercises, but it's all shambled, and I can't concentrate-

I'm choking on my own air. This is stupid. This is so stupid.

I'm fine. I don't have any reasons to panic. Everything is fine. This is irrational.  
I'm fine. Perfectly fine. This is ridiculous, I'm blowing out nothing out of proportions. I just need to stop exaggerating. I'm fine.  
I'm fine.  
I'm fine.

I'm fine.

My ankle hurts.

The door remains shut and silent in front of me, blurry.

My hand clutches my trunks and the other, the wall, near the threshold. My hand is shaking, but I don't really feel like I'm doing anything, so it's okay. It knocks on the wall, but it's moving a lot, and scraping it. It's okay, though, because I can't hear it hitting too loud. It's a faraway sound.  
It's okay. It's alright.

I'm fine.

I'm cold all over. I'm huffing and puffing rapidly, but I don't feel it hurting anymore. 

The meds are on the corner counter, the scissors in the little case next to it, the cutlery in the drawer, and the beers aside the stove.  
Everything's fine.

\-----

I toss and turn, uneasy. I phase in and out, as I usually do when I go to bed early and not collapsing of the day's work worth of exhaustion. My 2 to 6 am sleep schedule might not be ideal to many, but it's more than fitting for me, letting me bustle with energy while I check off the list of chores one by one. 

This right now, just doesn't work for me. I'm bustling with a sick kind of energy, a fake lull more like an insect buzz, and I'm really not happy with it. I'd try to force it out, but it's poor thinking, these kinds of things, you have to wait it out, and keep the nastiest sounding thoughts at bay, so you don't get stung. I'm doing an okay job of it, but I'm not quite fine. I'll probably be more apt in the morning.

So as I zone in and out of sleep, I don't know how much time pass, but I'm catching drafts of events around me. The hot summer air blowing in the cloth paddle of the windmill, the bats from back at the mushrooms cave flapping around the farm's land, the sounds of Eryza all over the house, and other foreign sounds.

Some, foreigner than usual. My auditory processing disorder honed by years of picking up sounds of danger and distress, on top of sleeping with a cradled Emily, whose nights are far from as dreamy as her calm air can be, catches the slightest of furniture moving and choking sounds, but all seeming far off in the distance.

They clear off and I turn some more.  
At some point I see light peering from under the door, obstructed by moving shadows. My mind drifts to Eryza, and I fall back into the haze, unperturbed.

That it, until the persistent taps and tacks of flesh against wood, that seem to have drowned into the background with how consistent it is, like the tick of a clock.

Then I remember. Shane!

I nearly fall off and on my ass with how hasty I am to open the door.  
When I do, I click the light of the room on, and the sight I'm greeted with…

\-----

It's cold. There's a sudden change in lighting and I'm disoriented. I'm all hot in the face. I've never felt so tired. 

I don't feel myself blinking. My ears are ringing. My eyes sting. My throat feels strangely constricted. 

I don't hurt. It's okay.

I don't feel the shift of gravity until I stumble and catch the wall- but my nails can't find form to latch on, and I slip- until I'm caught, my whole body thrown back by the movement of my arm being pulled.

"Woah there! Easy!"

\-----

He's left me a long enough chance to look him up and down, completely frozen. Safe for the quiver of his lip, parted open in a gravely exhale that twists into a higher whimper, and his hand that lowered off the door he kept rapting knuckles on, but now just spams, otherwise limp at his side, he's the perfect statue impression.

It scares me.  
I've seen Shane in many states, but not this one.  
Thanks, I hate it!

When he drops- and he just drops, like a string attaching him to the ceiling above snapped- his knees immediately buckle and his eyes, glazed over and tearful like not even with the alcohol before, don't even seem to register that what they focused on isn't moving with them, and stay fixed on ahead.

It's only cave-dwelling reflexes that allow me to grab onto his forearm and stop his abrupt descent. Miraculously, he stays upright. I've got to lay him down safely, now.

\-----

The door has opened. When did it do that? Did I do that? The shape in it keeps moving, and it curses. That voice.

"G...cia?" I can't speak out loud as usual, my lungs are like, punctioned.  
"Yah, it's me, I've got you buddy. C'mere."

Got me? I don't feel gotten, I don't need to; I've never felt this light. I chuckle.  
" 'Thing funny, dude?"  
I shake my head, I think I'm smiling. They wouldn't get it.  
Their hand keeps tugging mine.  
They've always been so grabby. And pushy. And, and, around.  
Until they won't.

"You got your binder off?"  
This pisses me off, I don't know why. I yank down my collar, stretching it, and when I can't enough, I yank the end of it up, showing off my scars. "- don't HAve a b-bind'- hh" I double over, taken by a sudden weird head lightening rush that has me lowered to the ground again, before I'm pushed back up.

"Right, sorry, fuck- I don't know why- Right, brainfog, I'm confusing you with…" I'm half-listening, yanking at the shirt. I want it off, it's too- it's too much!

My calves hit something soft, and I feel gravity's pull on me again. Instead of hitting hard planks like I thought, I'm cushioned. I'm floating.  
I feel moved around. My sight is all bad and fuzzy, but I'm seeing a pillow, with tacky, flashy neon colours and design that Emily probably chose- she had bedspread similar to it back in college.

I miss her.

It's easy to finally shut down, but Uidelsib starts tapping my cheek. I try to tell them off but I can't.  
"- Hhf- hhh-" I break in a coughing fit. They're closer now. I can view their features, like on a slow motion movie. Why do they look so…? Did I do something again?  
Everything's fine. I try to tell them that.  
"- hhfin'-" I cough again, but I can't take air in.  
"What's that, Shane?"  
"- 'm fine." Sends me in stitches, not the funny kind, again. It starts to hurt again. I don't like it, but it's weak. It's fine.  
"Sure you are, bucko, you're the finest hunk on this side of the coast. You're not okay, though, but I'm gonna make you."  
I'm turned on my side, my head lolling. It's like they're not really mine, but I sense my legs being put on more soft things, up in the air. It's uncomfortable, it makes my chest ache, and I try to struggle, but it only make them feebly jiggle.

I don't like this, it's too much.  
"Sh-sh…"  
They try to fold my hand under my head, but I don't let them- I need the shirt off!  
"Okay, okay, what do you want?"  
I try to tug at the shirt again, but it's like I'm jello, all over. "Sh..shhh…"  
"You want your shirt off?"  
I let out a low, guttural whine I don't feel belongs to me, and I try to nod, but it just hurts my head, and my hot cheeks just get wetter. I feel full of cotton.  
"Okay- crap, okay. Lemme-" Something shiny flies in my field of vision, and i tense and cry out- attempt to- when I feel something cold on my left side lower abdomen. It's momentary, though, and I hear the ripping of fabric followed by the thunk of metal on wood. There's rustling again, and my arm- I can't feel my arm, except for pinpricks of pain, I don't like it.  
"Shh, shhh, it's okay, it'll be over quick, shh."

My arm gets moved around some, and I feel the drag of cloth against my side and the bed, before it's off. I feel less reduced now. I'm fine.  
They tuck my hand under my cheek, between skin and pillow, and while they orient the other one to fall limply on the sheets, they push my head back and force my mouth open. It's awkward, but I'm too tired to make them let go. They do anyway.

"This better?" I nod, sluggish. I try to bat my hand at them, to get them closer. They can't hear me if they don't. But instead, they're stepping away, out of where I can see them. I don't want to be alone. It's starting to hurt.

But I'm fine.

\-----

The low sound he makes off his throat is heart wrenching, but how it cuts itself off is worse. I try to rummage as quick and well as I can, pushing out of the chest what I can't find useful. I'm starting to fear we threw it away, in a thoughtless whim to make up space, when my pinky catches on plastic wrap and rubber under it. Yes!

I hold it up, triomphant, and rush to the bedside, taking the package off, and pushing it softly right under his lower lip, and above his nose ridge.

When he tries to shake it off, I'm obligated to take ahold of his head, and force the mask to stay put.

\-----

"No, Shane, I can't let you take it off. It's not going to hurt you, it will help you take in air better. You're safe."  
I try to take off their wrist, but they don't budge, and my fingers keep slipping, jittery and ice like. The feel of whatever they pressed on my face is weird, and I want it gone, but everything is starting to burn, and it feels like wrap bubbles popping inside, except louder. and I can't hear anything. My ears are ringing.

I don't like this. I was fine, I wasn't in pain and the cold was fine, and everything stopped feeling so much- I was fine! 

"Shhh, Shane, it's okay, it's going to hurt and then it'll stop, and you'll be better. I'm staying right there till it does, okay?" 

There are pinpricks again in all of my cold limbs. Where they were cool, and slow to move, there's a tremor building, and it burns at the extremities. And it flares, and I'm not prepared, and it's hell.

"Hrkk-" This can't be normal, what's happening?  
"No- okay, okay, don't worry, just- yeah, do that, grab that, hold onto it, don't let go- as tight as you can, yes! Don't let go. You're doing great, Shane, you're doing-" They're a background noise to latch on in hope of forgetting the fury in my members, that can't seem to stop shivering.

God, I'm dying, am I not? I felt like I was floating, but now I'm spiraling, and everything hurts, it's awful.  
I'm not fine, am I? I never am- I can't focus on that thought, like sand it slips, and my head spins, even though I'm laid down, immobile.

I think I hear sobbing, distantly, and it might be me, but I'm not sure, I don't feel tears- my face's too hot.

\-----

He's starting to move more wildly than before, even if he's been under horrible spasms the whole time, and I can't tell if it's a good thing, even if my rational side provides empirical proof it is, from old biology lessons and first aid class. Moving limbs mean oxygenated muscles, and the low warmth creeping back in slowly is blood distributing the air around properly, and that means an oxygenated brain, if the sharpening pupils of the man under me aren't enough indication. 

He claws at my thigh, that he trapped earlier. It enough to make it feel like ants are crawling under there. Good.

I can still manage him, but I know it won't be easy for long, with the growing agitation. 

My nose's running, and I feel a few droplets dripping off of it, but I welcome them, for they release stress, and I do not need any supplement than the current adrenaline coursing in my veins like trying to catch back lost time. 

Taking care of someone losing control of themselves is always terrorizing, but I'd trained for this, before I even stepped into Joja for a trial period, and I do the steps on automatism, and breathe in tandem.

He's been clenching his mandibles shut, and we can't have that, especially with the risk of him biting or 'swallowing' his tongue. I force it open, and tip his whole skull back. It's like breaching a barrage open.

He's properly trashing, like a fish out of water.  
That's great. Because he's not a fish, and he needs to take in the freaking air.

"Guuh- Hhh- ahhhh- aahhhh- ack- ahhhhh- hhhh-" And we're back- now, guidance before he starts hyperventilating again.

\-----

I feel fingers pinching my cheeks through the mask- Garcia's, right? They're still here?- forcing my mouth open again, when I'd forgotten I'd been gritting my teeth- I suck in air like a madman, hungrier for it than I thought.

I'm not good at poetics, but it's like fireworks in my head, flowers blooming brutally, and pushing everything out, while something like sweet sap seeps through my body, releasing a lid and a tense structure I didn't even know were there. I could cry of relief, if I wasn't already. 

I think I convulse, but safe for the hotness swirling around and flipping my brain like it's burgs on a grill, I can't keep track of anything.

I'm nailed to the spot by two strong pillars, and I feel my leg violently knocking on wood, except softer, and it yells out a 'fUCK', so maybe not wood, then I black out. When I'm tuning in again, it's with the feeling of plushy blanket underneath, and a better kind of weightlessness.

I feel weight moving on the mattress, bending it a little beside me, then a form passes above, before it comes resting behind. The mask is still on, now held by a band I don't remember being tied. I focus slowly, and start hearing the crisp sounds of plastic filling and emptying. I cross my eyes to look at the small sack regulating my intake, on the mask. A- an arm comes lacing around my midsection, while another puts an hand on the shoulder burying in the bed.

I'm cold, and I try to shuffle closer to the body behind me instinctively, before I stop myself, mortified. We've… hugged before, laid down together, too, but. Never the two at once. It's a line I can't cross. Not when they're…

"C'mere." The hand on my shoulder pulls, and they situate themselves against my upper back, their torso flush against my shoulder blades. Below, a bundle of blankets let me lay back. I'm barely touching, but I feel their heartbeat in my ribcage, or maybe it's mine, and I'm completely leaning against them. Anchored.

"Okay. Now, I want you- Can you hear me, Shane?" I try to reply, but my mouth is dry and tongue heavy. Their fingers, like a drill keeping me on the spot keep tracing little circles against my- is that the sternum, or my diaphragm, after the ribs and before the belly? Jas had worked on a presentation with me helping- I was cutting the sticky parts and handling the hot glue and magnets- I feel myself slipping again, so I shake my head, weakly.

I hear a breath catch, and I scramble to tell them I'm- I'm listening, I'm not dead, yobz, chill-  
My hand manages to clumsily reach theirs on my stomach, and squeezes. They squeeze back.  
"Okay. Okay. Oof. Alright. Worst of it passed, alright." Their forehead bump softly at the top of my hair. That was scary, yeah. I squeeze again. They squeeze back. Their thumb circles again, on mine.  
Their chest rises and falls, and I fall in sync. They sigh.  
"I want you to, focus only on your breathing, and follow my lead. Okay?" Sure, way ahead of you. Doing that. I squeeze again.  
"I was so scared you'd have- like, brain damage, or something." Their voice is much less assured than usual, but- what brain damage??  
"F-fu'- you-" I cough again, and their free hand rubs my neck as they press closer to my back, absorbing the aftershocks. I think they giggle, the ass?? I concentrate on the in and out of the mask's little bag. Why would I have brain damage??- oh, wait. Oxygen deprivation, that does that. Could have done that. I nearly died, for real, this time, didn't I? And sober, too. 

I don't know why, but for some reason, it makes it even sadder.  
I don't know if or when I stopped crying, but I do again. It's less brutal, and wheezing, and it reminds me of when I was babbling to Garcia about taking control of my life. And then I asked them why I shouldn't 'roll off these cliffs'. Giving them that control.  
That was stupid. 

Or maybe not. Maybe I would have rolled off, maybe I shouldn't have had control. But losing control is dreadful, losing it makes everything pointless, and anxieties pile up.

But falling into the waters, that would have been control for a moment, but, when I did do that, that was just the same as before, on the ground. I couldn't accept to drown, maybe because this one time it was partly an accident. I couldn't let my lungs being filled with water, salt and sand, and it was just more painful. It was quick, though, thankfully.  
Unlike this time. That was drawn-out, and long, and I had time to submit to it before I- shit I got saved again, didn't I. This keeps up and I'll have to borrow Jas' princess outfit to drive in the trope.

But this is… nice. If losing control sucks badly, maybe lending control's better. If it's with the same asshat that watered you like an ugly cabbage with their honest-to-fuck sprinkler, and kicked your ass behind the Stardrop's when you'd gotten your beer all the way over the floor and cursed out the waitress- yes, Emily- and cradled you like a baby both times after because you can't live up to your own expectations. Maybe then it's fine.

I lull, relaxed like I rarely can.

When I start falling asleep, I'm woken up by the unzipping of something- right, the lash of the mask. Garcia takes it off, and stretches to put it on the nightstand. There are crystals here. And bottled salts. Am I laying on Emily's side of their bed?

I don't have the time to get flustered, because I see her spouse's face and they look so desolate, and that's the last straw. I know animals and I know keening, and I refuse to say I'm keening. I'm bawling, yeaah, bawling, that's better. Big, fat tears falling against the duvet as I push myself in- and then they push me out.  
"Tt- tt- come on, now, I didn't put you on respiratory aid so you can smother yourself now, chicken man."  
"I-I'm sorry-"  
"For what?" They get closer, wiping my eyes and kissing my temple, like I see them doing with Jas and Vincent when they cry, and Penny, when she was coming down with a fever but thought she'd give class anyway, and we had to take her home and keep the kids entertai- educated, and she cried because she felt she was doing a bad job. And oh, temple kisses are underrated and should not only be for kids and sick overworked teacher girls, because I feel like hell but appreciated.  
"For what, Shane?" They press. I'm too sad and too tired to talk, and fuck everything because this has been a shitshow. I try to stop them when they settle back down. They let me. I grab, with one hand that keeps slipping and shaking, their cheek, my thumb on drying tear tracks and I shake my head, because this stinks. This stinks.

"Why, because I'm crying too?"  
I nod feebly, not wanting to start the nausea or the coughing up again.  
"Ssh, shut up, crying is good. Crying's good and it's awesome when it's for friends that can tease you or cry with you. Magical girls shows taught me everything I know."  
I can't help but laugh at that. They love the gooey overly optimistic sparkly nonsense so much. Jas and them have this ritual of watching this one series, Ojamajo Cure? It's dumb. They're adorable. They even have little make-up sessions based on their favorite heroines each. Apparently, I'm a Cure Aïko mixed in with Cure Dorémi, and a sprinkle of Dark Cure Onpu, whatever that means. Jas fervently insisted. I just like the colour coordination. Because. Eheh. Bi flag.  
… These series do have a pretty good character dynamic on top of creative designs and compelling enough storylines, for a five-to-fifteen audience.  
Shut up.  
I'm a manly man. I have a pet chicken.

I still haven't let go of them, and they're laughing weakly, but at least with a real smile on their face, even if me and my bullshit made them cry. I think 'Hey. That dude saved my life. Again.'

And then I kiss them.

It's more of a fast peck on the bone of their lower jaw, and I fall back against them in exhaustion from pushing myself up there, something fast and affectionate the same way a little kid does to- I don't fucking know, their piano teacher, their dog, or their favourite toy, rather than their boy crush, but I immediately regret everything. 

The cold rush of sweat pricks my entire back again and run to the tips of my fingers, and I search their face for a reaction- it cut them off in a laugh instantly, surprise all over their face, and fuck fuck fuck Shane you don't kiss your lesbian friend you creep, you don't kiss your friend period, gross, that's why you haven't had a meaningful friendship since kindergarten! Except for Jarel, but he married your step-sister, and that wasn't exactly a friendship either, and if you go down that lane, you're in for yet another cryfest so stop it-

Their embrace tighten in a proper hug from the side, and they moosh their face against mine, chuckling, and I regret everything, but for another reason entirely.  
"Aaaaw Shaney boi, I didn't think you had it in you!" And they they slobber me. Like. They do that annoying as fucking shit 'kiss' where you leave a big wet spot just to ruin the other person's day, and I just. I can't open my eyes very wide, because crusty and tired and also cried like, five hours tonight, but. I'm glowering. So much. At them.

And they can see it, I know they can, because they're looking straight into my red puffy eyes and cackling, like, you know, an asshole. And I can't even wipe it off myself because my arms officially became marshmallow bricks. They flop uselessly when I try to swat at them, and that makes them coo, flipping coo, taking pity in me.

They use their sleeve to brush the spot off, and I seeth. "D'sgust'n'."  
That only make them laugh more, till they swallow their own spit and start tapping at their chest, still shaking with mirth. That's what they deserve. 

I sniffle, over my own head with the events. I let them wipe and blow my nose, with an actual tissue, this time, the animal has manners occasionally.  
They finally lay back down, and I'd think I could sleep, but minutes trickle, and still nothing. Their arms are more absent around me, and I miss the pressure.

\-----

I don't think I'll sleep anymore tonight. Maybe catch a nap, but no real slumber. Unless I sleep in tomorrow. I can do that.

I'm progressively distancing myself from him, giving him space, not wanting to add on further overwhelming presence.

When I see his shoulders trembling again, I wonder.  
Is he relapsing?

"Shane?"  
"Hmmm." He sounds disgruntled.  
"You good?" He shakes his head. Oh no.  
"Hmmmmm." I kneel to look around his neck. His face is pressed against his pillow like before, but I let it there, and I see the curve of his bare upper body trying to fold on itself.

It's 30°C outside. 28°C in here.

"You're not cold, are you?"  
"Hmmmm." He shakes his head again, seeming frustrated.  
The boxes keep getting ticked, but… I'm not sure.

\-----

I'm not cold, no, I- I don't understand what's going on again. I'm not having a panic attack anymore, the telltale burning sensation of anxiety is gone- although it's coming back now- I should be fine!  
"Hrrm."  
I-  
I make that weird sound that I thought I stopped as a child. I can't talk.  
Why?

\-----

"Are you going nonverbal?" Wild shot.  
Shane looks owlish, considers the possibility, and shrugs. Maybe?

… This wasn't a panic attack. Or maybe not just that.  
I think it was a meltdown.  
There- there'd been signs before-!  
But I keep my mouth shut. 

"Do you need…" I watch closely. His tucked hand stayed there since the beginning of the whole ordeal, grappling at his hair, pulling slightly. The other clenched, pushing on his diaphragm where I've left it. Sensory stimulation. 

"Hmmrrr. Hmmmrrr." That's. That could be echolalia. He's muffling it, because he knows what it is, or he doesn't, but he thinks he does, I'm convinced!

"... Do you need this?" I put half my weight atop of him, tentatively. 

The change is immediate.

\-----

I don't know how they did that, but if they could keep doing it, that'd be great.  
If I could stop sounding like a- a- a dumbass, because I can't use the r slur for myself anymore apparently, because positive reinforcement, that'd be great too!

And then they're gone. That's- that's just cruel.

\----- 

"Hrrrrrrrr-" he dry sobs, and yeah, it probably hurts, if what I think is happening is happening. Hypostimulation blows hard, and in a really unsexy way.

Time for chest-digging again! Not literal chest, no, treasure ones. At the foot of the bed, all sheltered from moths, cat scratches and dust, the trove of quilts, blankets, and wools the wife and I accumulated over the years, like the little hoarder magpies that we are.

And there it is. The pinnacle of domestic technology for ADHD'ers and autistic people all over the globe. No wonder I couldn't sleep, I forgot about it. I'd be still snoozing like a baby if I hadn't.

I'm so glad I forgot about it.

But now, as I stand on my bed and drape it over my not-so-old friend, tucking it in as tightly as I can around his frame, I sure am glad I spent the bill for it. When I'm done, I kneel behind him, resting on his arm.

"Better?" Okay, I might be feeling like a smug cat showing off its latest find a little too much. Good thing that Shane is only dog person-passing. He's actually pretty ambivalent on the subject. Both are good to me, Garcia. Chicken are better anyways.

Ah yes, the third gender, chickens.

\-----

"Better?"  
Better?

So, so much better than better. I think that I forgot all of my troubles the moment that thing fell on me- ah wait no, I still remember Morris' ugly mug, nevermind.

I so do not care about that money thot Morris right now, though.  
I'm in heavens.

I can even hear the cuckling from here.

Ah wait, no, that's most likely Garcia's hens back at the coop. Only an amateur, someone with no fear or a feathery friends' lover would build a coop so close to the house. Guess which I am.

"W-w'at's...at?" I'm frustrated at my poor diction, but I'm focused on holding back the irrepressible urge to just roll 'r' for no apparent reasons. I've been making enough of a spectacle of myself for one night.

"A weighted blanket. The highest achievement of humankind so far."  
And Garcia always had a thing for the dramatic, but oh, tonight I believe them.  
Cocooning is for children and hipsters. Well, I guess tonight I've proven which category I'm apart of.

…  
Don't call me a hipster, or I swear to Charlie-

"So, better, I take it?"  
I nod, relieved and sound.  
They brush sweat and hair off my forehead, with that… tenderness I mistook for them being pampered before. 

I shut down, empty for good. Just. There. Unthinking.

\-----

The chickens chant their morning heyoooo's in the clear and warm air of summer, under the noonish sun and blue skies. 

The tack-thack-tack of my red heels on pavement leave place to muted dry mud smashed and grass brushing against my thin ankles, as I stride home. Skipping the three steps all at once, I twirl through the threshold, ready to strike a 'I'm home!' pose. But inside, darkness and empty space greet me. 

The air is also cooler than outside, which is a relief, but peculiar nonetheless. We open the windows to let in the good energies and photosynthesis rays that our indoor grapes need to grow plentiful and sweet, usually.

I decide to check the plants, actually. And to my surprise, healthy feeling leaves but dry soil greet me. I choose to take a moment to mentally investigate as I make the rounds- serving green friends is much easier than customers; they never spill anything you didn't give them too much of, and always give back in kind. 

Uidelsib dear was not on the fields when I arrived. They always greet me when they are, no matter how busy.

They could be tending to the cattle and poultry…  
No, they're not. They haven't left the house. There's a strong vibe of nestling, yes, like the birds'! 

With that done, I consider the way to go. 

I check the back, first, sensing an uneasiness in the walls. That would be unfortunate, as we will have the children sleeping here.

I open the door, and on the bed…

The bright orange of our lovely cat, tail dancing mellow above them, watching me wisely. The bed around her is all unmade.

"You didn't make this mess, now did you, little sugarmouth?"  
For all answer, they purr and jump to walk around my feet. I feel the bed, frowning. Something awful went down here. It is familiar, but I don't assume further. 

Half-following Eryza, I proceed to the next likeliest spot. Catching the sign sticked to the door, I giggle. Honey had been fake-scandalized at the sight of it when I tacked it there, on fourth night.  
Gasp! Em! Think of the children!  
We don't have any yet, dear *giggles*  
No! The children!

They'd said, legs poised in a wide crouch, both arms thrown toward our grapes.  
Ah. I married an absolute buffon. I love them so much.

But the door stops me. In this same exact spot, crushing loneliness and immobilizing fear overlap with our habitual protective hums. I worry.

I push the door open.

Conflicting energies beyond. You'd think that's what bedrooms are for, being closed and private, but-

"Oh."

On the bed, two figures.  
I take off my heels, and saunter over on my tippy-toes.

The one on top, I can guess is Uidel. I still reach to ruffle their hair, making sure of… yes, they had an eventful night, but, well, their uncaring snoring and snorting tells enough. 

Now, to the surprise guest they are wrapped around…  
"Ouh." That's a naked chest. I snatch my hand back. Oops. In the obscurity, I really cannot count on my lentils to make up for my limited sight.  
I trail my fingers above the aura, to the crown of their head. It's so… Out of the ordinary? Till I stumble on a lock of rough hair, that definitely reminds me of someone.

"Hmmmmmrrr" I hold my breath and myself still as a tree. This allows me to catch the continuous low noise of someone… Is that purring? No, Eryza's back at the door, sitting idly, looking at us humans and our strange antics.

No, that's… Shane? Shane's voice.

I heard it before. Doing that. That same exact particular sound. Back when we slept together- after we, uh. Slept together. 

I take a step back, contemplating the scene below, pensive.

All questions about yesterday's events seem irrelevant. They make such a lovely picture. Like two kitten in a heap around each other.  
"Don't you think so, Eryza?"  
She meows, haughtlily disapproving of any likeness.  
"Well, I think that you're wrong." I know kitten too.

Aw. If only I had Haley's camera.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Farmer Uidel: that could be a meltdown, on top of a panic attack.  
> *Narrator voice* And it was a meltdown, on top of a panic attack
> 
> And also, surprise! Emily!
> 
> This marks the end of that work. I have an idea to continue that particular storyline of the verse, for Autistic people month. That's April. See you there, then!
> 
> Do not hesitate to give me your thoughts on that one, in the meanwhile. I take keysmashes, angry allcaps, confused "????" and ":^)))) gud".


End file.
